


lovers under another moonlit night

by unholyfruitt



Category: Maurice (1987), Maurice - E. M. Forster
Genre: Canon Gay Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mild Smut, Nature, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27894694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unholyfruitt/pseuds/unholyfruitt
Summary: Maurice thinks about his past and present during a night with Alec in the greenwood
Relationships: Maurice Hall/Alec Scudder
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	lovers under another moonlit night

**Author's Note:**

> Some lines have been taken from 'Maurice' by E. M. Forster.
> 
> 'The Sleepers' by Walt Whitman is also quoted.

It was deep into the night. The trees outside wavered in the soft Autumn wind, communicating the steady arrival of Winter. The fire had been put out long ago in the den, as the men had quickly got into bed lest the heat they gathered would be lost to the chill in the cottage. Another spoil of war. But it was a loss not missed, as they could always hold each other, underneath simple blankets in whatever warm clothes they wore, rubbing each other’s hands, intertwining legs. Chests were rising and falling, slowly, and eyes were half-lidded as soft words were exchanged. A smile. A dawn in the dusk of the bare room, sun rays parting the darkness and ushering in a new morning. And just like that, the sun retreated, the rays vanished. The mouth closed into a fainter curve. The curve of a boat traced with a finger lightly, pretending he couldn’t see it when it was all he could see. All Alec could see. Someone swallowed, an Adam’s apple bobbed like a being on the surface of water, barely afloat, and then sunk and rose. Sinking, rising. That too was traced. Bright eyes blinked as Maurice wondered where the finger would venture next. He decided to be mischievous, purposefully staying ever so still, knowing that Alec would trace whatever moved. And if nothing moves, what will he do? For a moment, Maurice froze, testing his lover, searching his eyes for a response to his quiet, secret game. Alec caught on quick enough, though had waited a few moments before, hand poised, muscles tensed in anticipation. But now using that same hand to pinch Maurice playfully on the exposed skin of his stomach, the dip of his waist on the side, while feigning laughter initially but breaking into a soft giggle soon after. His lover smiled again; the mischief was caught after all.

And Alec traced Maurice's lips with his.

He lightly dragged them to both corners of his mouth, resisting licking the valleys at intervals, stabling himself on one almost-upright arm that threatened to waver and send him crashing down. But he knew the man beneath would catch him. _He always did in one way or another._ Alec closed his eyes. Time seemed to blur as he repeated the act several times, hearing Maurice open his mouth a little more, feeling it. The tip of his tongue trying to excite him, but not too much. Both of them wanted to take their time, feeling no rush whatsoever, ordering their bodies and the burst of desire rousing in their stomachs to stand down, just a little longer. Just a little longer. After all, there were no brothers or fathers waiting, no business meetings missed, no packing, and certainly no more dread, no anxiety for a journey to Argentina. Neither was there worrying that a certain country squire would decide to visit the forgotten boathouse. All that was left behind. But life would, of course, go on. An infinite number of Normannias would embark, not knowing which passenger forsook her for love, more boathouses would house desperate, passionate trysts under the watchful eye of the eternal trees. More mothers and sisters would carry on, content with the knowledge that their sons and brothers were safe. Museums would be visited, stocks bought and sold. Heirs birthed for a crumbling estate. But here, _here_ , this is where time did not exist. The greenwood would always and forever be, out of time and space, without time and space. Encircling the two lovers and becoming all they know. 

Alec now slowly reached until he was above Maurice, resting his weight on the knees on either side of the latter's body, head still bent as his curls fell over Maurice's eyes. A low laugh danced in his throat as his lover tried to blink the obstruction away, blond eyelashes fluttering in the silence of the night. Alec bent down further until his mouth reached Maurice's ear, their cheeks pressing together and turning warm with love. 

'You overwhelm me.'

Maurice's breath was caught in his throat. Alec's voice was so low, he almost didn't hear what he said. It was lovely, deep, and full of warmth, the salt from a faraway sea, his sighs being the foam gathering on the shore, disappearing into the soaked sand. The sigh he heard after Alec chopped wood, the ax coming down on the bark, the sigh of peace and relief when he sunk into a bath filled with water they boiled moments ago, mixed with the crispness of the cold water that came in the taps. The sigh that melted into birdsong and insects chirping when they lay outside on a tattered quilt in the grass, Maurice reading poetry. Lately it had been Whitman, but they often dallied between Donne and Bronte and Thoreau and others. And of course there were the novels. _We must get books_ , Maurice said. _I don't mind if they're second hand, but promise me we'll set aside some money every month to buy some_. Alec had agreed. _Then we'll read to to each other_ , he said. _I should right enjoy that_. And so they did, reading becoming the unofficial past time on Sundays, or whenever they didnt have any work, or if one was working and the other wanted to provide some company. Maurice closed his eyes. What was that poem he had been reading lately? _Ah yes . . . it was 'The Sleepers' by Whitman_. He recalled Alec asking him something that day as his words dissolved into the greenwood air. _What was it?_

_'What does that word mean?'_

_'Which one?'_

_'Overwhelmed.'_

_'Ah I see. ' I am jealous and overwhelm’d with friendliness, And will go gallivant with the light and air myself.' ' _

_ 'Yeah that one.' _

_ 'It means hmmm . . . let me see now . . . I suppose it means a very strong emotional affect. Like being overwhelmed by something, you're moved by it.' _

Alec had then nodded his head. _'Could you read that bit about the lover again? It was jolly beautiful that part.'_ And so Maurice did.

Now Alec had repeated that word, using his lover as the subject.

_ You overwhelm me. _

Maurice was dragged back to a time where he had never been enough. Not for society, not for his family, and certainly not for Clive. He remembered when his then-beloved had returned from Greece, how happy Maurice had been to see him after so long, how he forgot that Clive hadn't answered his letters full of love. And how Clive had looked at him with disgust. As if he was physically repulsed by him. _This can't be happening_ , he had thought. _Why? Why? Why?_ The questions and voices only grew louder and more piercing as Clive deserted him. That night he had emptied a bottle of scotch, wishing to break the glass in a fit of rage and sorrow, only stopping because he knew his mother and sisters would come in and create a fuss. He had cried that whole night, weeping into his pillow as the tears streamed down his face, his sadness knowing no possible end. Why? And then of course, his mother and Dr. Barry and even his friends at Hill & Hall saying how much he looked like his father. _Oh, Morrie, your father always went to church, why can't you be more like him? Ah Maurice old boy, plan to marry a pretty young lady, eh? Better to do as Mr. Hall did, of course. Carry on the Hall legacy._ What bloody Hall legacy? Serves them right, Maurice had thought, when he gave his name as Scudder to Ducie at the Museum. _This name is empty, it's full of privilege, I have been shackled down by it by my father, and this is my defiance. I am not a Hall. I am not my father. I am Maurice. I am enough, I am enough, I am enough._

Maurice opened his eyes. Never in his life had he believed that he could ever be enough for someone else. It took him long enough to realise he was enough for himself, but for a lover? His lover. Alec, who tended to the garden, cooked food with him, for him, washed the clothes, loved him cherished him, asked him if this or that was okay, or if they ought to try letting the hens walk around for a bit in the mornings, laughed with a precious, sharp-canined smile, eyes glowing, body tender and beautiful, a sharp wit, a sense of humour Maurice had never before found in anyone else. And _he_ was enough for Alec? Not only that, but he overwhelmed him. 

_ I overwhelm him.  _

Maurice had begun to cry. He believed he could stifle it at first, swallow his throat and blink a few times, but it was unavoidable. He was weeping, out of joy, of happiness, of love, from knowing that he was finally, _finally_ , appreciated and adored, after a year of despair, of thinking he would be alone all his life, that there was no happiness for people like him . . .

Alec felt his cheek becoming wet and suddenly drew back to face Maurice, finding him sobbing quietly.

'What is it? Maurice, darling?' He held his lover's face in his hands, wiping away the tears with his thumbs while Maurice's hands held Alec's wrists. 'Did I say something wrong?'

Maurice smiled and shook his head, sniffling, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

'No, sweetheart, no. The opposite, really. You made me very happy, I was overjoyed.'

Alec frowned slightly, but then understood and kissed Maurice's eyes, holding him close to his body.  'I love you,' he whispered.

'I love you too.'

'You really do, y'know.'

'I what?'

'You really do overwhelm me,' Alec spoke into the locks of Maurice's hair. 'You fill me with so much love and I admire you so much . . . I can't believe . . . I can't believe I get to spend the rest of my life with you . . .'

Maurice tried hard to stop crying again, but failed, softly laughing at himself. 

'Look,' he said, pointing his chin towards the window.  'It's a moonlit night.'

The clouds, indeed, had shifted, letting the rays of the moon shine upon them and the trees outside. 

'So it is.'


End file.
